


we hold each other up to the light

by Ellis



Series: all the ways a soul can bruise [1]
Category: Being Human, Being Human (UK)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-06
Updated: 2013-08-06
Packaged: 2017-12-22 13:59:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,760
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/914022
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ellis/pseuds/Ellis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She doesn’t want to talk about her first full moon, the one where she broke into a house she was sure was abandoned, and locked herself in the cellar as her hands broke and her bones started to realign themselves, and howled and screamed and sobbed and said his name more than once, more than she would ever like to admit or recall, and wanted to die and wanted to spit on God and wanted to rip the throats out of whoever was unlucky enough to come across her, and all the while her veins were on fire and her skeletal structure was reassembling itself and changing and all she could do was cry and say his fucking name over and over and over until she forgot herself and ultimately lost herself.</p>
            </blockquote>





	we hold each other up to the light

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Saravan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Saravan/gifts).



> The title is taken from "Skin Divers" by Anne Michaels.
> 
> Let me tell you how long it's been since I've written anything I like. So -- anyway -- this is gifted to Sara, the greatest life ruiner of them all, 5x05 not included. 
> 
> Don't look at me. Just enjoy the pain.

It is what it is, she tells him blankly, staring at him with one raised eyebrow, _daring_ him to challenge her. The results of the test say the same: it is what it is. Which is to say it is what he suspected, exactly that, and yet he finds himself thinking— _wishing_ —he should’ve been wrong. Because this is crueller than cruel: this is a once a month ticket to Hell, a suffering he would not wish upon anyone. He breathes out slowly, hands becoming fists, resisting the urge to smash and destroy the first thing he can find, looks at her squarely on and says, “is that all you can say?”

 

And Natasha, as she always does, meets his gaze and grins with a light in her eye, and comes back with, “yeah. Because that’s it, isn’t it? It is what it is.”

 

Dominic sighs and closes his eyes. He counts to ten in every language he can think of, but when he opens his eyes again her test results are still on the desk in front of him and nothing has changed. “Do you want to go for further tests?”

 

“No,” she answers. She sits across from him, arms folded, slumped in her chair with her head cocked to the side and a sad smile on her face. He’s made sadder by the sight of it, though admitting such an emotion is foolish. “I don’t really care to know if it’s genetic or not.”

 

He wants to say all sorts of things (it might be important to know whether or not it’s genetic; it _would_ be important to know; it would help me to know; it would put my mind at ease; it would—) but in the end he says nothing at all, simply nods and picks up the paper and pinches the bridge of his nose and sighs very quietly to himself.

 

Time ticks away alongside them; Natasha sits and watches him; he frowns and reads and re-reads and analyses her results. In the end he has to come to terms with how nothing can be done; he folds the paper neatly in half, slips it back into its envelope and passes it over to her.

 

She picks it up. Their fingers touch briefly. Natasha smiles. “You’re upset,” she points out. “Are you waiting for an apology?”

 

There is a beat whereupon he withdraws his hand and sighs. “I’m not.” Then – “No, I’m not.”

 

“Repetitive.” She smiles again. Stands, dusts herself down in a way she has seen him do many, many times. It fails to make him smile; instead his shoulders slump imperceptibly and suddenly Natasha is intrinsically aware that this changes everything. “I’m sorry,” she offers, though the apology is not hers to make. “I…”

 

He looks up at her then, with startling clarity, and seems to hang on the edge of something before he voices what it is he appears to have difficulty saying. It comes out off kilter, clipped at the edges but possessing a genuine warmth—concern?—somewhere in the centre. “When?”

 

And Natasha thinks _oh_ , and doesn’t want to say when, or where, or how. And she doesn’t want to talk about her first full moon, the one where she broke into a house she was _sure_ was abandoned, and locked herself in the cellar as her hands broke and her bones started to realign themselves, and howled and screamed and sobbed and said his name more than once, more than she would ever like to admit or recall, and wanted to die and wanted to spit on God and wanted to rip the throats out of whoever was unlucky enough to come across her, and all the while her veins were on fire and her skeletal structure was reassembling itself and _changing_ and all she could do was cry and say his fucking name over and over and over until she forgot herself and ultimately lost herself.

 

So she smiles instead. The sweetest, most disarming smile she can manage, the one reserved for Robbie when he’s in one of his moods, the one that Dominic hates the most because he _knows_ whom it’s reserved for and why it’s on her face. “I don’t know,” she answers truthfully. Well—as truthfully as she can. A half-lie: she doesn’t know _how_. Or where. Only that she was sick a few months ago, running a fever near the full moon, and thought she had the flu—even Robbie thought she had the flu, and Robbie is unusually incompetent at these sorts of things—and then suddenly, when she started clawing at her arms and whimpering and sobbing and felt her teeth sharpen to points in her mouth. All this three days before the full moon, so of course she had her suspicions (of course she _knew_ )—but he doesn’t need to know that.

 

Dominic narrows his eyes and sighs again, swallowing her answer in silence. His gaze is sharp and she doesn’t like it, stuffs the envelope back into her pocket and hates that he even had his suspicions, but who would he be if he were not at least somewhat suspicious? A part of her is grateful for it; four months of carrying it around like the world’s worst secret can do a lot to a person, and now it’s out and in the air and he isn’t lecturing her or confining her to a cell akin to Bobby’s. _Yet_.

 

“You must know,” he says, insistent, gaze sharper than she would like. “I suspect it’s recent, though how recent I wouldn’t like to say.” He steeples his fingers and now it’s _her_ turn to suspect he’s been gearing up to this for a while. “Have you been taking precautions?”

 

Natasha rises to the bait; she bares her teeth and feels the wolf’s hackles rise within her and snaps, “of _course_ ,” and then softens slightly, wants to apologise but she’s still irritated, says, “four months,” and bites her tongue and hunches her shoulders, defensive. “You think I’d really be around you and not take precautions? _Please_.” Covering the hurt with sarcasm, an age old defensive mechanism he sees through immediately because his eyes become less intense and he sits back in his chair and shakes his head.

 

That’s her apology. He is silent for a moment longer. “And no one’s been hurt, otherwise I would know about it.” Another apology. She lifts her chin and dares him to imply something else about her, about this _thing_ inside her, about the situation they’re both in, but instead he sighs and pulls a face like there’s a foul taste in his mouth. “And… Robbie—?”

 

At least he remembered Robbie’s name, she reflects with a smile, tilting her head and trying not to be amused. “Don’t worry, Dominic, he doesn’t know a thing. I know how you are with secrecy and being mysterious.”

 

Dominic puffs up like a – well – there’s never been a word to describe it – but he puffs up and she bites her lip as he says, quite indignantly, “the safety and security of the human race has little to do with being _mysterious_.” And then launches into his favourite topic: Protocol and Professionalism in the Department.

 

She interrupts with a cough. Grins at him, swinging her legs, and says, “I know. I’ve heard it a thousand times before. More than that, even. I’m… being safe about it, though. All this.” A loose gesture over her body, then she crosses her arms again and breathes out. “I know what I’m doing.” Sort of. “It’s… not like I’ve killed anyone.” He looks at her then, and the weight of her words strikes her. She bites her lips, goes to retract her statement. “I know—don’t lecture me on it—I know I could, but I’m… I’m being safe. I’ve told you, haven’t I? And don’t say ‘I suspected’, because that’s not what I mean.”

 

“What do you mean?” He looks genuinely curious.

 

Natasha stifles a sigh. “This is almost as awkward as a sex talk.” To which he pulls a face and scowls at her. She can hear the words already: this is a _tad_ more serious than a sex talk, Tasha, but is lucky he doesn’t say them. “I mean… I went for the test, like you wanted. Well – like you _suggested_. And now we’re here, and you know, and I don’t have to pretend it’s not happening any more.”

 

Dominic, for once, does not come back with a well timed reply. He weighs her up and smiles faintly and says, quite softly, “I need to know about the precautions you’ve been taking.”

 

So she lists them off: seclusion and isolation during the full moon, no physical contact in the two days preceding and following the full moon. Plenty of water, back up explanations for curious habits she may or may not develop during the days around her transformation. An increase in iron and red meats to satisfy the intensity of her appetite and cravings around that time of the month. Never too much caution. Never too much care. And in the end she smiles at him, hoping he’s pleased, wanting to probe him to find out if he’s pleased but is too hesitant to even try.

 

There is a crease between Dominic’s eyebrows. He sighs very quietly, straightens in his chair, and produces his pen from the pocket of his jacket, clicking it once. From his top desk drawer he brings out a notepad, and proceeds to jot down everything she has just told him, and then and only then does he deign to look at her again, pen still hovering mere millimetres from the paper. “Is there anything else?”

 

“No,” she sounds, touching the back of her jeans where the envelope sits, as if to check it’s still there. It is. “Unless you want to know more?”

 

He blinks. “Perhaps.” His pen presses onto the paper again; he writes something else down in one fluid motion. She doesn’t need to see what’s on the paper to know that she won’t be able to read it; his handwriting has a mind of its own and is hard to decipher at the best of times. When she was younger she’d teased him about it, and he’d never reacted favourably. To do so again at a time like this would be to invite trouble.

 

“It doesn’t make me want to have sex more,” Natasha says casually, grinning. “The whole – the change… leading up to it… I don’t have an increased sex drive. I think it only affects my appetite.”

 

Dominic’s mouth twitches. Annoyed, he says, “I am aware of that.” After a beat he adds – “It has never affected Bobby’s sex drive either.”

 

She can’t resist. Comes out with: “Maybe he just doesn’t fancy you.” And Dominic’s face – the ire, the inward despair at her distinct disregard for propriety – is priceless.

 

“ _Please_ ,” he breathes, touching his temples, a sure sign of irritation.

 

“Have you ever _asked_ him about his sex drive?” she adds, her grin wicked.

 

He stiffens and, tight lipped, retorts that such conversations are confidential and therefore none of her business. She wants to take this as a yes but can’t bring herself to imagine how such a conversation would have played out. Having been around when Dominic has attempted to order takeaway for the werewolf, she is quite sure she’d want to bear witness to such a sensitive and intimate discussion, but is just as sure that she would be ordered from the room by a flustered and hapless Dominic following her bursting out into loud and unstoppable laughter.

 

She almost forgets, then, that they are having a serious conversation. And his face is lighter and brighter and he almost seems younger—and then he clears his throat and clicks his pen again, a habit she associates with him being both practical minded and nervous to steer the topic back to things he’s comfortable around, and the spell is broken.

 

“Are you prepared for this month’s full moon?”

 

Natasha’s mouth twists into a frown. She nods, though in her gut the nod feels weak. “I’ve got it covered, don’t worry.”

 

“That doesn’t bring me much comfort,” he answers, which is his code for _I do worry_ , which in turn makes her feel guilty and makes her skin hot and makes her feel like her bones are about to break any second now. She shakes the sensation, bites her lip and sighs a little as he says, “I am going to offer you an alternative.”

 

“Share a cell with Bobby?” She purses her lips. “I don’t think so.”

 

“We have more than one cell,” he answers lightly, watching her in a way that makes her uncomfortable. “It would only be for one night. I am always around during the full moon to ensure Bobby’s transformation is smooth and relatively pain free, so I will be here during yours…”

 

The rest of what he says fades from her mind. She imagines the white hot fear of transforming while knowing he is sitting on the other side of the door, the humiliation that comes with somebody hearing you screaming their name. Her stomach knots and tenses; she swallows and shakes her head, adamant she will not be invaded like this. “No.”

 

“Tasha,” he says, and now he’s annoyed; his lips are thinning and he’s tense around the shoulders. She rises to her feet and he rises too, mirroring her in every way, which only serves to make her antsier because this has always been code for _I care_ , and recently there have been too many variations of that code for her to count. And now… “Tasha,” he says again, placating her, palms up and spread wide, “you’ll be safe here.”

 

Because _safe_ is meant to mean something, isn’t it? She can name the times he’s said that: dropping her off at shelters, taking her back to foster homes, letting her sleep on his settee once, twice, three times in as many nights. He might have said it to her when she was younger, too, except she can’t remember that far back, only that he’s always been around, albeit distant, and now he wants to – Christ – lock her up under the pretence of safety, lock her up like Bobby and Christ knows how many other monsters he’s done the same to. And there it is – that word: _monster_ … that’s what she wants to hear. That word come out of his mouth in reference to her, but he hasn’t said it yet; it’s his disappointment which is worse, the line of his shoulders and the downturn of his mouth and the way his eyes fell away from the page when he read her test results and _knew_. Disappointment is always the hardest thing to bear from someone you care about, and Tasha knows this better than anyone.

 

“ _Tasha_ ,” and somewhere between then and now he’s come around his desk and he’s standing in front of her – leaning, slouching, fucking _Dominic_ – and he’s peering into her face like he’s trying to work her out. “You have two weeks until the full moon. This option means you wouldn’t have to worry about accommodation, or the safety of civilians.”

 

She knows that, of course she does. It’s just that – it’s what? That she thought he wouldn’t come up with this? That she hadn’t thought about it herself when she first realised what was happening—crawling into Bobby’s cell and transforming and hoping Dominic wouldn’t notice that there were two werewolves in there instead of one? She scowls at him and looks away, irrationally offended. “I’m fine.”

 

He presses on. “I’d prefer it if you were here.” He doesn’t say: where I could keep an eye on you.

 

She wants to tell him he’s selfish, that this is more about her than it is about him, that if she kills anyone it will be her burden to live with, not his, that her being here is to placate himself rather than any genuine concern for her welfare, but the words don’t come out. Instead she looks at him and her scowl deepens and she shakes her head. “I don’t want to.”

 

“You’re being reckless.”

 

“I don’t want to. I can take care of it myself.”

 

“You’re being reckless,” he says again, as though this will make her see sense. “Give me your word that you will at least contemplate it.”

 

“Yeah, yeah,” Tasha breezes, stepping away, body twisting so that they’re no longer aligned together as they so often are, matching each other in language and position, “I’ll think about it.” She grabs her rucksack from where it has been unceremoniously dumped by her chair. “If it makes you happy, I’ll think about it.”

 

He doesn’t say anything for a moment. And then he looks at her and says, earnestly, heartfelt, “thank you,” and she takes this as her cue to leave.

 

 

-

 

 

The thing about the disease – she doesn’t know what else to call it – is that it has a long, complicated name, but is not actually that complicated in nature—or so she’s been told. Her doctor – another lie; _Dominic’s_ doctor – seems confident that it can be contracted through a bite, as all the legends seem to suggest, and as all of Dominic’s data suggests, and also through genetics. The genetics can’t strictly be proven, of course, because most if not _all_ werewolves are made thusly via the bite, but… well, she could be the piece that changes everything. Which she isn’t exactly pleased about, but there’s not much she can do about it.

 

Dominic’s doctor – a well educated woman, face like an angel, and from the way she’d looked at Dominic upon him arriving at the consultancy with her in tow, well, Tasha had been hard pressed to think there wasn’t some sort of _feelings_ thing going on between them, unreciprocated or otherwise – had explained it all very calmly. Dominic had been outside, hadn’t wanted to infringe upon doctor-patient confidentiality, so it was the two of them in her spacious office with winter morning sunlight streaming in through the window and Tasha frowning and scowling and saying she wasn’t sure why she needed to be here in the first place.

 

He’d been with her for the test too. Taken her to his doctor, sat outside and waited for her, and driven her home again. That was two weeks ago; despite knowing why she was here, Tasha was adamant that she didn’t need to be here, that the results were not _important_. But Dominic’s doctor, one Beverley Caine, had coolly and softly sat her down with no uncertain amount of professionalism and revealed the results of her test to her, and then proceeded to explain exactly what that meant.

 

“You have what we like to call Darwin’s, Ms Myles,” she says in a slight lilt – Tasha wants to say _Ireland_ but nothing comes out because the only Darwin she knows is Charles Darwin and she’s pretty sure he didn’t have anything to do with werewolves, or even knew they existed.

 

“Right,” she answers, scuffing her trainers on the floor. “I didn’t even know being a werewolf _was_ a disease.”  Oh how this must please Dominic to the ends of the earth. Types and now diseases; more proof that werewolves aren’t human. Her stomach twists into knots; she bites her lip and looks at the floor.

 

“It’s a complex issue,” Beverley agrees, smiling. Tasha rolls her eyes and thinks, _that’s not what I meant_ , though doesn’t say anything. “It’s called Darwin’s, albeit Charles didn’t strictly _discover_ it, but… it fits, wouldn’t you agree?”

 

She wouldn’t agree. She smiles and asks her to go on.

 

“I’m able to confirm that you have it.” Tasha wishes Dominic were here so he could fix her with his ‘do continue’ deadpan stare, which she has yet to perfect. “Anything else past that I couldn’t tell you unless you wish to do further tests. Were you bitten?”

 

“That’s none of your business,” Tasha answers. She means to say no, but she’s bored of this woman’s patronising tone and her overbearing attempt at friendliness. It’s little wonder Dominic is never sick; he probably can’t stand her either. She has never been bitten, nor ever put herself in a situation where she could get bitten. Dominic would never stand for it; Dominic would probably snap the offending werewolf’s neck should one ever decide to bite her.

 

Beverley smiles and smiles and smiles and keeps her hands folded neatly on her knees. “I would hazard a guess and say yours is genetic rather than passed on through the bite. Having it emerge this late in your life could be a result of hormones or severe stress in your life, or any number of emotional or environmental factors. If you like, I could arrange for a psychologist to sit with you and go through everything with you…”

 

“Is this department sanctioned?” she asks loudly, raising her eyebrows and fixing Beverley with a pointed stare. “I’m not sure Dominic would be pleased if he knew you were signing me up to a shrink without his permission.”

 

“Is he your legal guardian?” Beverley counters, still smiling. “Everything we do here is sanctioned by Mr Rook’s department. Were you unaware of the department’s psychologist? Ms Chancellor is a lovely woman, and frequently helps out new employees suffering from all sorts of emotional problems.”

 

Natasha narrows her eyes. No, she didn’t know the department had a psychologist. Or that _this_ was sanctioned by the department. She purses her lips and makes a note to ask Dominic about it later. “I don’t need to see a psychologist.”

 

“If you’re sure,” Beverley answers, but she seems more sympathetic now. “Suddenly becoming a werewolf can leave a person with a lot of negative emotions and a lot of unanswered questions.”

 

“I bet Dominic _loves_ you,” Tasha says, because she can’t think of anything else to say, all snide and acidity. “Are you a werewolf advocate?”

 

“I believe in the human spirit.” Beverley keeps on smiling.

 

She doesn’t want to talk about this anymore, so she says, “how do you know Dominic, anyway?” and Beverley shakes her head and smiles wryly and taps her nose in the irritating way adults do when they don’t want you to know something.

 

She _fumes_. Gets up, takes her test results – lovingly sealed in an envelope – shoves them into her pocket and storms out to where Dominic is trying his hardest not to scowl at a screaming child, sitting ram rod straight and ignoring the allure of magazines on the coffee table in the waiting room.

 

 

-

 

 

I’m a werewolf, she wants to say to Robbie. She curls up in his lap as they watch television and listens to the beat of his heart and wants to tell him that she’s a werewolf and now less than human in Dominic’s eyes, even though Dominic has never once stipulated such a thing. But she knows how Dominic’s mind works and knows how he views Bobby and how he views all other supernaturals and _knows_ that her time is coming. One day he’ll stop accepting her requests to see him; he’ll stop calling and texting and checking up on her, and one day he’ll just fade out of her life and she won’t even have to hear him call her a monster because his absence will prove that alone.

 

“You’re quiet,” Robbie comments, reaching for the remote and changing the channel in a half hearted attempt to get her attention. “Has Mr Crow said something to you?”

 

“His name is Rook,” she retorts instantly, opening her eyes. His heartbeat is solid and dependable. Boom. Boom. Boom. Reliable. “Dominic,” she amends softly. “His name is Dominic.”

 

Robbie snorts and rolls his eyes. “It’s all the same to me. Has he upset you?”

 

“No.” The television settles on the ten o’clock news. She reaches over and takes the remote from him, flicking through the channels to find something more upbeat. “I’m not feeling well.”

 

He stirs underneath her, a sigh rumbling in his chest. “Want painkillers? Tea?”

 

“No and no,” Tasha answers, smiling because she can’t help herself, kissing his hair and kissing his forehead. “Maybe an early night.” She grins at him, all wickedness and temptation, and he catches the look in her eye and grins back at her.

 

“Maybe,” he counters, kissing her nose, her chin, the corner of her mouth. “You gonna tell me why you went and saw Crow?”

 

“ _Dominic_ ,” she insists, though she’s giggling from his face pressed against her throat. “We had to talk about – _Robbie_ – we had to talk about some stuff.”

 

He sighs against her skin, says, “you and your bloody secrets,” but doesn’t mean a word of it.

 

I’m a werewolf, she says in her head. I have Darwin’s. I’m going to spend the next full moon in a cell with someone listening to me scream, and listening to my bones break. “Yeah,” she replies, running her hands through his hair. “Me and my secrets.”

 

 

-

 

 

She calls him the next morning while Robbie’s still asleep in bed. He picks up immediately; it’s two minutes past seven and while she’s surprised _she’s_ up this early, it comes to no surprise to her that he is.

 

“No rest for the wicked,” she quips into her phone, making tea in the kitchen as she presses the handset to her ear.

 

“Why are you up so early?” Dominic gets straight to the point, as always. Natasha smiles, stirring in milk to her tea.

 

“The early bird catches the worm.” She’s running out of things to say, and he sighs and she feels like he’s rolling his eyes, so opts to get straight to the point and channel her inner Mr Rook. “I wanted to talk to you.”

 

“About?” Okay, so not as _to the point_ as Dominic would like, but it’s a start. She senses annoyance there. “I don’t have all day, Tasha.”

 

“You do,” she teases, and then sobers, adding heaps of sugar to her tea. “No – I wanted to talk to you about yesterday.”

 

Alan’s voice surfaces in the background. There is a flurry of muffled irritation from Dominic; he has his hand over the receiver, she suspects, but can still make out words like ‘not now’ and ‘can’t you see I’m on the phone?’ and something about how Alan should look into getting another test booked at the local optician’s. She giggles and hopes Dominic doesn’t hear. Static, the sound of movement, then—“You wanted to talk to me about yesterday? What about it?”

 

“Yes.” Tasha clears her throat and wanders into the lounge with her tea, curling up on the settee, phone still pressed against her ear. “I’ll… take you up on your offer.”

 

There is a pause. “It wasn’t an offer,” Dominic says, and her heart falls. She can hear him doing things in the background; he’s on his laptop at the same time as he’s talking to her. She shouldn’t be surprised, but it stings slightly.

 

“Oh?”

 

“It was an alternative to your current situation, not an offer. I was not going to withdraw it should you be unhappy with it.”

 

Tasha sighs and stretches out on the settee, taking a sip of tea. “Right. Well. I want to… take you up on that alternative.”

 

Dominic is silent for a moment. This is perhaps the first time she has ever heard him rendered speechless. “I see,” he says, and he is as guarded as ever.

 

“I see?” she presses. “Is that all you’re going to say?”

 

“Have some breakfast,” he answers, and she thinks he might be smiling. “And some tea. And then go back to bed. I suspect this is a product of you not being too used to being up before midday, and not something you’re seriously considering.”

 

She laughs. Says, “shut _up_ ,” and rolls her eyes. “I am considering it – I do want to do it.”

 

“I’m taping this conversation and holding you to that,” he retorts, quite serious, though again she feels like he’s smiling. She can’t place why, only that her stomach is warm and _she’s_ smiling and is comforted by the idea that he might be too. “Eat something. Drink something. Go back to sleep.”

 

“You too,” Tasha rebukes softly, gently, teasing. “Except the last part – God knows you don’t sleep.”

 

Dominic mutters something about rudeness so early on in the day and hangs up. And Tasha drinks her tea and makes another cup and thinks about the oncoming storm.


End file.
